


Beyond the Dippy Blonde Affair

by tainry



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-21
Updated: 2016-02-21
Packaged: 2018-05-22 12:15:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6078972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tainry/pseuds/tainry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya's been standing in the rain. Napoleon needs to warm him up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beyond the Dippy Blonde Affair

**Author's Note:**

> Post-caper shagging aaaaaaaaaand that's about it.

Napoleon surreptitiously glanced out the window, watching the progress of Illya and Baldinado across the courtyard. He'd been kissing Jojo, as per the plan - Baldinado would hopefully come unglued (and incautious) at seeing them thus. Jojo fiddled with his tie. Napoleon turned his eyes back to her, keeping an ear tuned for Illya instead. "You were saying...?" 

Outside, Baldinado saw Jojo and Napoleon in the car. Illya saw his cue and dove for the man's gun. After a brief struggle in the rain, the former THRUSH boss lay crumpled and despondent in the doorway, a broken man. Illya, soaking wet but unbothered by it - still a little high on adrenaline - approached the car. 

Napoleon watched him out the corner of an eye, confident of the little scuffle's outcome. "Y'know, I have got a week's vacation coming up pretty soon, um..." So did Illya, but he wasn't going to tell Jojo that. 

"Oh? With pay?" Jojo grinned at him, only half-joking. Napoleon grimaced. Oh, he was definitely going on vacation soon - but not with _this_ blonde... 

Illya squelched closer, spitting rain, doing an admirable job of controlling his smirk. Ah, poor Napoleon, and the fixes his habitual gentlemanliness got him into. He was almost tempted to leave him to Jojo's tender...whatever... 

"We do work well together, don't we." But Napoleon just bared his teeth and thumbed tightly at the back door of the car. Illya grinned and got in, sprawling casually over the bench seat, ignoring the mess he was making of the leather, and the glare Jojo shot in his direction while Napoleon radioed for the UNCLE cleanup crew. 

Napoleon drove them back to UNCLE HQ with as much haste as possible, given the conditions. What he really wanted to do was peel Illya out of that wet suit and...warm him up. At the office, he expedited the conclusion of the case, handed the man-eating Jojo Tyler off to a hapless junior agent, rushed through some paperwork, then made excuses to Waverly, saying he thought it best - given the lateness of the evening - to get Mr. Kuryakin home and wrapped around some nice hot chicken soup. Illya had, of course, already dried off and changed into spare clothes, but the blond Russian went along with Napoleon's solicitous suggestions with barely concealed amusement.

"What? I thought you were taking Miss Tyler on vacation."

"That's not funny, Illya." They handed their badges to the front desk security clerk and passed through to Del Floria's.

Out on the street it was still raining. They'd taken Napoleon's car in to work that morning, so Napoleon unlocked the driver-side door and ducked inside while Illya stood in the rain, his face turned upwards, smiling, getting thoroughly wet again. Napoleon unlocked the passenger-side door and opened it. After a moment, Illya got in, wiping his face on the handkerchief his partner offered.

So, making sure I get to peel you out of wet clothes after all. Napoleon let one corner of his mouth curl upwards in a Kuryakin-esque half-grin. He'd noticed earlier that Illya wasn't wearing a belt, and probably not underwear, either. Napoleon bit his lips and kept his hands on the wheel.

They both ran up the stairs to the brownstone housing their apartments. The elevator ride to Napoleon's penthouse hummed with electric tension, as the two stood facing one another, deliberately far apart; Illya dripping, the fabric of his thin sweater and thinner slacks clinging to him in interesting places. Down the hall, shoulder to shoulder, then to the complex, hidden lock. Napoleon keyed it, hoping his racing pulse didn't throw the recognition imprint. The mechanism meeped softly and let them in; Napoleon gestured Illya to precede him. Nice view.

Illya went directly to the large picture window and peeked out between the drapes, keenly aware of Napoleon's heat signature behind him. He let the drapery fall as he felt hands gently relieve him of his jacket and gun holster. 

"Mm, must get you out of those wet things," Napoleon purred, his breath tickling the young Russian's ear, not quite touching him yet. Illya shivered almost imperceptibly. Napoleon hastily doffed his own jacket, tie, holster, shirt and belt, kicking his shoes and socks over behind the couch. His breathing was already unsteady; they weren't going to make it to the bedroom this time. He curled his hands around the hem of Illya's damp sweater and drew it upwards slowly. 

Illya raised his arms, almost an arabesque, arched his back slightly, letting the knit slide free. His skin was pebbled with gooseflesh, nipples rosily erect. Napoleon opened his mouth and bent his head to nuzzle the smooth muscle of Illya's shoulder, at last letting his fingertips trace around the slim waist, caressing the taut stomach. Illya's head fell back, turning, his lips brushing through Napoleon's dark hair. He stood otherwise still, holding like granite for as long as he could while Napoleon's hands and mouth wandered. 

Napoleon kissed the side of Illya's throat, making his way up to a tender earlobe. "Illyusha... Lyubimaya sila...krasivy stal... Nuzhin tui tak, yakor moi." _Beloved strength...beautiful steel... I need you so, my anchor._ Illya's body gave a lithe sort of ripple, as Napoleon had known it would. Illya turned like quicksilver in his arms with a fierce little hiss, grabbing Napoleon's shoulders and forcing him back, catching Napoleon's leg with a foot sweep, following him down to the carpet in a controlled tangle of arms and hands and lips and bodies, savagely tugging at the waistband of Napoleon's pants. Napoleon had hoped for at least the couch, but with a frenzied Illya atop him, he more than willingly lifted his hips to aid the removal of the last of his clothing. Full speed ahead and damn the rug burns. 

Illya abruptly settled, resting on Napoleon's body, kissing him gently and thoroughly, caressing Napoleon's temples and cheeks with the backs of his fingers. 

Napoleon made a small sound, rumbling low in his chest, returning the kiss deeply. He stroked Illya's back and hips - the Russian's flesh was heating up nicely, but he was still wearing trousers, and they were wet...and cold. Except in one focused place, rubbing slowly across Napoleon's lower belly. Now it was Napoleon with goosebumps, and he shivered hopefully. "Illyusha, tvoi bryuki kholodny..." _...your pants are cold..._

Illya immediately lifted up enough to get at the button and zipper. Napoleon helped slide the damp, clinging fabric off, enjoying the uncovered territory. Once the trousers were down to Illya's knees, Napoleon brought his feet up to pull them off the rest of the way with his dexterous toes. He spared the oriental carpet only a passing thought, then returned to the worthier task - getting Illya back to his accustomed, thermonuclear temperature.

Illya obligingly switched gears again, clasping Napoleon with arms and legs, rolling them across the floor, narrowly missing an end table. His kisses had teeth in them; Napoleon groaned and held on. 

They clawed and bit and tumbled around the living room; Illya providing most of the motive force, Napoleon doing his best to lick Illya's rain-wet skin dry. When Napoleon couldn't hear for the rushing of the blood in his ears, and Illya's lips couldn't hold back his cries, they slowed and settled on the couch, catching their breath a little. Illya straddled Napoleon's lap, pressing their tender undersides together, swollen and jostling. Napoleon was loath to remove his hands from Illya's buttocks, but did so anyway, making a hollow big enough for both cocks at once. Illya brought one of his hands down to help, leaving his other arm around Napoleon's shoulder, then began a slow rocking with his hips. The nerve-fire built as they kissed and shared breath and held each other in suspense. 

Illya broke first; arching his neck and unfurling his voice - Napoleon had done sneaky things with his hands. But feeling his partner's pull, and the hot liquid droplets running down, Napoleon soon followed; head falling back, mouth falling open on Russian endearments.

They gathered each other in, nestling in warmth for just a moment more, ignoring the growling of Illya's stomach.

Napoleon nuzzled his partner's hair and kissed his temple. "We _do_ work well together, indeed."


End file.
